by LP Lovell
“I can and I will.”
A laugh lingers in my throat but never quite breaks free. “Be serious.” He lives for power, pursues it with a lust like no other. To go against the mafia on this… “You can’t give up everything you worked for just because I’m having your baby. This isn’t…we’re just us, okay? No promises. No attachment. We can’t—”
“Morte.” His eyes drop to my lips as his hold softens, thumb stroking over my jaw. “I love you.”
All the breath leaves my lungs and I can’t speak. Love. Weakness. Vulnerability. I don’t want to weaken Nero, but I think I love him in as much capacity as I have. As much as it terrifies me, it doesn’t make me feel weak. The complete opposite. I’m never stronger than when I’m standing next to him. The power in his words washes over me. The sheer exhilaration of being loved by a man like Nero encases me like a steel blanket, impenetrable and warm. I realize that I want his love, perhaps even need it. After all, isn’t it love that makes us human? Nero’s love goes hand in hand with the very humanity that Nicholai tried so hard to strip me of. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed as he waits for me to say something.
“Does love trump power?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
His lips curl into a smile. “Ah, Morte, when it comes to you, love bolsters power.” He pulls me forward and I go to him. When his lips meet mine it feels like more than just a kiss, it’s a promise, a vow of something bigger than just me or him. It’s us against everything and everyone that would hurt us. I feel the weight of everything he doesn’t say in the reverent brush of his lips, his demanding and possessive hold on my jaw. It’s a kiss that says he’s in my corner, unconditionally. He breaks away and touches his forehead to mine, warm breath blowing over my lips. “King protects Queen now.”
And of course, reality comes crashing in like a dam breaking. I wish Nero could protect me, and although I know he can’t, I allow him to think he can. It’s stupid, but I guess I’m living in my warped version of a dream. Most little girls dream of getting married and living in a nice house. I dreamt of blood and torture. Nero is my version of a fairy tale. Blood soaked and ruthless as we are, this is what we have, and soon it will probably be gone. I told him there is no happily ever after here, that we are the monsters in this story. That’s true. Nothing good ever lasts in our world of chaos and death. I wonder if he knows that, or if he truly does think that everything will be okay because he’s Nero Verdi and he wills it so.
We pull up outside a townhouse on the Upper Eastside and I get out of the car, staring up at the four-story home on a totally inconspicuous looking street. Flower boxes line the windows and small trees are dotted along the sidewalk. How very upper-middle class family living.
We pull up outside a brick townhouse on the Eastside and I get out of the car, taking in the tree lined side walk and the flower boxes beneath the windows. It’s so very…not mafia, and a million miles from the secluded Hamptons mansions of the under boss and capo’s. I follow Nero up the three steps that lead to the front door. The ring of the bell echoes through the house on the other side of the thick wood. The door opens on a guy with slicked back black hair and a dark suit. He lifts his chin at Nero before his gaze shifts to me. The scar on his forehead pinches when he frowns.
“She’s with me,” Nero says. The guy lets us in and closes the door. We're shown up the stairs and to an office at the top of the house. Nero and Cesare couldn't be further apart in their tastes. Nero is minimalistic and modern where Cesare is classic. His office is made up of wooden flooring, leather couches and thick rugs. A bookshelf covers one wall, filled with old books. The room smells of cigar smoke and leather. But where it seems like it should be dark and dingy in here, it's not. Behind the desk is a wall of glass that opens out onto a terrace.
Nero takes a seat and I browse the shelves, spotting some first edition Hemingway nestled in the stacks. I haven't met Cesare in person yet, but simply being inside someone's home can tell you a lot about them.
The door clicks open and Cesare strides in, his face set in a frown. "Nero," he says shortly, barely even glancing my way.
"Cesare," Nero greets him icily.
“This wasn’t expected.”
“I called ahead.”
“Yes, you did. You didn’t say you were bringing Una Ivanov with you, though.” He spits my name as if it offends him. “I’d rather you didn’t invite Russian soldiers into my home.”
Nero flashes me a warning look. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Rolling my eyes, I walk over to Cesare, placing myself in front of him. "I don’t believe we’ve met." I hold out my hand, but he just stares at me, cool eyes slowly drifting over my body in the form fitting dress. His brows inch up and he glances at Nero, lips pressing into a tight line. "I tell you to do your duty and you present me with this?"
"If it's any consolation, this happened before you decided to claim your son.” I know I'm poking a bear with a big stick, but seriously? “Oh and I’m not Elite anymore. Although…I don’t recall that being a problem when you needed my services.” His eye twitches slightly, but other than that the older man’s expression doesn’t change. He’s good. I smirk and move away from him.
Nero fixes me with a cool look. "I told you, Una isn't going anywhere." I move to his side. His hands are thrust casually in his pockets, and I loop my arm through his, staring Cesare down. I know I’m intimidating, and Nero’s terrifying at the best of times. Together we’re formidable, even to someone as well versed in power as Cesare. I know it, and so does Nero.
"What you did not say is that she is with child."
I lift an brow. “Surprise?”
He glares at me. “Well done, Nero. You’ve managed to create an illegitimate bastard with a Russian whore.” Nero lets out a low hiss of breath and every muscle in his body tenses.
“That’s a touchy subject,” I say, trying to hide my delight because I know Nero’s about three seconds from nuclear, and well…I like fireworks and blood.
“You will marry an Italian woman and do your duty. I have allowed this to go on long enough.” Cesare sneers. “This organization is built on years of tradition, and you shit on it.” Nero remains strangely calm, seemingly reining in his temper while I wrestle my own anger simmering just below the surface. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the blade strapped to the inside of my thigh.
I move away from Nero and circle Cesare, my eyes assessing him like an enemy, spotting every weakness he has. The way he carries himself suggests that he’s had an injury to his right leg. Old, because he’s compensated for it. If I were to attack him, he’d have less range of movement on his right side because of it. I glance at Nero and he offers me the smallest shake of his head. “He shits on it?” I tap my index finger over my bottom lip and Cesare twists his head to look at me.
“You know nothing of our ways. You have no honor, no mercy.”
Nero sighs. “She’s Russian, she kills people. Yes, yes, I’m aware. Now, you are going to accept her as the mother of my child, publicly, to the family.”
Cesare laughs, clutching at his stomach before he coughs loudly. “A Russian, with my son. I’d sooner disown you. I will never acknowledge that whore.” He stabs a finger in my direction. “And neither will the men. She killed your brothers and you fuck her like her pussy is made of gold. If you marry her, you will lose everything, Nero. Consider that carefully.”
Nero’s fists clench and this time it’s me shaking my head at him. He can’t bite. We must always be in control of the old man, maintain the upper hand. “See, this is where we’re a little unclear.” I take a seat on one of the couches and slowly cross one leg over the other. “Those traditions you were talking about, that honor…” I trail off, smiling slightly. “Do your remaining men know that you orchestrated a hit on your own guys just to get your son in power?” I pretend to inspect my nails. “Do they know that you sanctioned the death of Nero’s own brother?”
He snorts. “No one wou
ld believe your word, Bacio Della Morte.”
“No, but they’d believe mine.” Nero circles around the back of the couch and stands behind me.
“Don’t waste my time. You implicate yourself as much as anything.”
Nero’s hand lands on my shoulder. “And?”
My fingers cover his. “You see, Cesare, the difference between us and you, is we don’t don a white hat and pretend to be anything other than what we are.”
“I wasn’t quite raised the Italian way. You can thank Matteo for that. I don’t give a fuck about your traditions, and I sure as shit don’t care for honor.” Nero’s voice is low and deadly. “And everyone knows it. I don’t have to pretend. You on the other hand… You are the great Cesare Ugoli, a man of honor, a man of the old country.”
“The way I see it, you have two choices, Cesare,” I say. “You can make me your enemy, or you can make me your ally. I intend to remove Nicholai. I have the skills, the connections, and the benefit of the fact that he wants me back more than anything. And of course, I can bring the Russian gun trade to Nero. Or…”
“Or,” Nero growls, “I can make it known that you set up your own men, hired Una and then hung her out to dry, allowing Arnaldo to hunt her like a fucking dog while she was pregnant with your own grandchild.”
“And failing that, Nicholai is very welcoming when it comes to men of Nero’s skill. He’d do well in the bratva.” This time, Cesare’s cold expression flickers. I’m bluffing, of course. If he knew the situation with Nicholai, he’d have us over a barrel because handing me to Nicholai would fix all his problems. “Now you’ve publicly claimed Nero, it would look terrible if he were to work for the enemy.”
“You would be lured to that Russian prick by this piece of cunt?” Cesare explodes. And so does Nero. In a shot he’s in front of the older man, a gun in hand. I’m quick to grab Nero’s arm, forcing myself into his line of sight. I wait for him to shift his rage-filled gaze to me. He stares at me for a beat and then slides the gun back inside his chest holster. Tensions are high, and Nero is volatile at the best of times.
“What do you propose?” Cesare says as he considers his son’s reaction.
“You will make it known that Una did not kill those men, that it was Arnaldo, and he set her up as a cover. The hit placed on her was unsanctioned by yourself. The retribution of a lone, pregnant woman will seem fair, and given that he killed his own, it’s justice don’t you think?” The implication is right there. Cesare sanctioned Nero blackmailing me. He essentially signed the death warrants for the three men Nero had me kill.
Cesare moves over to his desk, taking a seat as he opens a metal box. He takes out a cigar and places it between his lips, lighting it slowly. His lighter snaps shut and the silence that follows is intense. “You would betray me, the family, for this woman?” Ces
“You may have turned your back on your child and the woman you loved, but I will not do the same.”
Cesare’s brows shoot up before pulling into a deep frown. “And you will risk your position, your name, your life, for this?” His eyes flick to me and I know, he already knows the answer.
“If I have to, then yes,” Nero responds without hesitation.
Cesare narrows his eyes at me. “She hones you, like the sharpened edge of a blade. You are more dangerous with her.” At least the man saw some sense.
“You may not like me, Cesare, but you hate the bratva. You want their gun trade. I am invested in ending Nicholai. I know everything there is to know about him. I am perhaps the only person capable of killing him. You’d do well to view me as an ally.”
He takes another slow inhale of his cigar and the thick smoke winds around the room. “Fine. You do this, Una Ivanov, and the mafia will not accept you, but…” He trails off as though speaking the words pains him. “I will ensure that they tolerate you. Fail…”
“If I fail, I die.”
He nods slowly. I get up and walk towards the door. “Morte, give me a moment,” Nero says.
Wordlessly, I step outside and brace my back against the wall in the hallway. I miss the days when life was simple. Orders, kills, money. Nothing more, nothing less. There is a certain freedom in having no freedom because you don’t have to think. My only thoughts were my next kill, the execution of it, the getaway. My job, my purpose, consumed every waking hour, and I lived for it, until this. I glance down at my stomach which looks like I swallowed a melon. Whoever could have predicted this? In a few short months, Nero turned my whole world on its head, and here we are, blackmailing one mob boss and plotting to kill another. This life is harder and yet easier, because Nero bears the burden with me. I’ve never had that, and I’m not sure whether it’s just setting myself up for failure, but for once, I’m going to do something, not because it’s rational or strategically wise. I’m going to do this with Nero despite my brain telling me we can’t possibly win, because my heart hopes that we can. The heart is a fragile and unreliable thing.
He walks out of the office a few minutes later, pulling the door closed behind him. “Well, I didn’t hear any shots.” I study him. “And seeing as you insist on wearing white shirts…no blood.”
His lips twist in a smirk that’s both sexy and unsettling. “The old man’s not dead yet.” We walk along the hall and down the stairs, encountering no one on our way out.
“Isn’t this place supposed to be well guarded?” I ask.
“Oh, they’re watching. They’re just subtle about it.” He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me from the house. We’re in the car before he releases a breath and drags both hands through his hair.
“I don’t know why you don’t just slit his throat and be done with it.” I huff. Cesare does not have what it takes to do what must be done. He is the boss, and I have no doubt he is respected in the mafia, but things need to change. Nicholai has spent years taking and training children all because no one would step in and stop him, and why? Politics. An easy life. No one wants a war. I learned early on that a man can kill in cold blood, and it’s no hardship, but until he does things he doesn’t want to do, crosses lines that should never be crossed, he has not truly been tested. Life is hard and ugly, and it takes hard and ugly men to rule it. Cesare is a strong leader to those who share his values. Nero has the ability to lead even those who would loathe him out of sheer respect and disciplined fear. That is what it takes to be the king of New York. Nero should take the crown from Cesare’s cold, dead body.
“Politics, Morte. All in good time.” I’m not cut out for diplomacy.
“Fucking Italians.”
“Life with you is always interesting, my savage little queen.”
“My life was simple before you dragged me into yours. Kill, eat, sleep, repeat. I meet you and I’m rogue and knocked up within weeks,” I grumble. “I haven’t even killed anyone in weeks, Nero.”
“Okay, but I think that if we work it out to an average, you’re probably over your yearly quota.” He cocks a brow and clearly thinks he’s amusing. “Anyway…we now have what we need from Cesare. We take out Nicholai, come back to New York and we’ll have the political protection. The Slovo can take the fall…”
“And we’ll live happily ever after.” I snort.
“Is there such a thing when I’m with a woman who gets death withdrawal?” He starts the engine, pulling away from the curb. “Look, I have to go and handle something this afternoon. It might involve roughing some Albanians up a little if you want to come?”
I fight a smile. “Are you inviting me along to beat up dodgy drug dealers with you?” His gaze remains fixed on the road as he takes an audible breath, no doubt praying for patience. “How romantic.”
“Fine. I’ll take you home.”
“As it happens, I’m partial to your romantic gestures, capo. Whose knee-caps are we smashing?” His lips pull into a smile, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be normal. Well, almost. He drops the sports car down a gear and we cruise away from the city, heading towards
the Brooklyn.
18
Nero
I pull up to the old shipping warehouse on the outskirts of Brooklyn. The place is rough as fuck, and I have to leave constant security to guard it, but it’s the deal I have with NYPD. I pay them off and, in return, I have to keep the shady shit out of the city. They effectively turn a blind eye, but think of it as the lesser of two evils. The mafia keep their noses clean, have their shit together, and rule with an iron fist. Dodgy blow, street gangs, guns and violence…we keep that shit off our streets, which means the police don’t have to. It’s a simple fact that if you were to eliminate the mafias and the cartels, anarchy would ensue. That’s the corrupt world we live in, the reality of the modern justice system. I’m all too happy to play judge, jury, and executioner.
I pull up to a massive roller door and it slowly lifts, exposing the dingy, dark warehouse beyond. It’s empty except for a couple of shipping containers stacked against the wall. My eyes adjust to the dim light cast by a couple of weak strip lights as I pull in. Gio leans against the hood of his Aston Martin, arms folded over his chest as he watches the scene before him. Two guys stand there, fierce scowls on their faces. Jackson is behind them, a gun in each hand pointed at their backs. The rest of Jackson’s team are spread out around the empty warehouse.
I get out of the car and go to the trunk, grabbing a metal baseball bat and throwing to Una. Gio’s eyes narrow when we approach him and Una takes seat on the hood right next to him. “Nice car.”
“Nice bat,” he replies.
She twirls the weapon. “Thanks. It’s a little more…bludgeon-y than I’m used to.”
Shaking my head, I walk over to the two guys, pausing in front of them. I take my cigarettes from my inside pocket and place one between my lips, slowly lifting the lighter to the end. Silence descends through the warehouse and I love it, that pregnant pause, as if everyone in the room is holding their breath. Snapping the lighter shut, I inhale a long draw, holding the smoke deep in my lungs.